Monster
by Cameron-Sholto
Summary: ON PERMANENT HAITUS. OOTV CANON. PREQUEL TO SPEECHLESS. In a slow descent into madness, who can you rely on? And how do you help someone who will not let you in? Brotherly Mycroft/Sherlock with residual one-sided Mystrade.
1. Shadows

**Monster**

**Prequel to **_**Speechless**_**, Sequel to **_**Gabrielle**_

Set when Sherlock is about 16 and Mycroft is 23

**DISCLAIMER: **_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or any rights to the canon. This is for pleasure only. Do not sue my ass.**_

* * *

><p><em><em>**CHAPTER ONE: Shadows  
><strong>

The young man slouched against the rough brick wall, struggling to catch his breath. He was not sure exactly how long he had been running, but his lithe body was not used to such athletic pursuits. He was a scholar, not an athlete. Well, more the one than the other at any rate.

As he wheezed gently, he reminded himself that he really ought to quit smoking. Perhaps then he would be able to breathe.

His ears pricked as he made out heavy footfalls approaching from the west. Dress oxfords. A man, and a man who took himself rather too seriously at that. Left-foot dominant. Tall, though not heroically. Gait much shorter than his legs required.

He smirked to himself, his storm blue eyes sparking with mischief. Best give the old boy the slip again, he decided, leaping onto the fire escape that hung above his head.

"Sherlock!" bellowed the young man who came running up below him, glaring at him with a hand raised to block the sun. "What the devil are you playing at? I've been scouring the city for you for three quarters of an hour already! Get down here and finish your Latin!"

"Latin is boring, Mycroft. I'm off to find something more productive." Sherlock grinned back at his brother, taking care to rain mud and other more unpleasant things from his shoes onto the older lad's grey suit coat.

Mycroft sighed in displeasure as he brushed the offending dirt from his shoulders. "I will cane you. Don't think I won't."

"You'll have to catch me first." And without another word, he took off across the rooftops, heading deeper into the urban jungle which was his playground.

Mycroft shook his head wearily, turning towards home. He whimpered slightly as he picked at the damp residue which remained plastered to his blazer. "Every time. I really ought to start carrying an umbrella. Then perhaps I'll have one suit left he hasn't stained."

* * *

><p>As he knelt beside a dumpster in the back streets of Lambeth, lighting another cigarette to help him think, Sherlock Holmes drifted back to the day he'd begrudgingly agreed to move in with his stiff-backed older brother. It had been mother's idea, of course. She had always tried to persuade her sons to be more amicable towards each other, with rarely any good result.<p>

This latest attempt was the most invasive, he thought bitterly. He was between terms at Cambridge, and should have been studying chemistry in his laboratory at Holmes Manor rather than being stuck pouring over musty old books with Mycroft in his stuffy London flat. He had a mind that craved adventure, and as quiet as the rural life was, at least there he'd had the freedom to pursue it.

Mycroft alternated between treating him like ash or like glass. He seemed convinced his brother would shatter on contact. . . Or that perhaps he would merely leave another curious stain on his immaculate person, Sherlock thought bitterly. Either way, something exciting had better happen soon, or he was liable to make it happen.

* * *

><p>For his part, Mycroft could not for the life of him understand why his brother was so adamant about finding adventure. He had never entirely understood Sherlock, not when he was a mewling, grasping infant and certainly not now. . .not that he had stopped trying. Every time he thought he'd made a breakthrough, the boy would retreat farther from him. And he would lose patience, would shout and threaten, and nothing ever got better.<p>

He did not want to yell at his brother. Mother had asked him to look after the boy, and so he tried. But Sherlock made it so hard to be kind.

He sighed, swirling his brandy about in a cheap glass snifter.

"I'll apologize when he gets home," he murmured to himself.

* * *

><p>But Sherlock did not come home that night.<p>

Or the night after.

Mycroft searched everywhere for him, his anger and frustration gradually becoming replaced by apprehension and worry. One night he could understand. Two began to smack of carelessness.

By the fourth day, he finally concluded that there was nothing more he could do on his own. After all, he was only a low-ranking government official, with barely enough clearance to fetch coffee. He needed help.

He sighed as he thumbed the worn napkin in his hand. How he hated calling her now, after all these years of avoiding each other. Well, he had been doing most of the avoiding. Caring was not an advantage, and she had made him care too much.

He dialed the inked-on number carefully. The phone rang three times before it was picked up.

"Hello?" replied a husky masculine voice. "Who is this?"

He clamped his eyes shut tightly, trying to collect himself. A man. So she had moved on. He sighed shakily.

"Hello. Is Gabrielle about?"

There was a brief snort on the end of the line and a few moments of silence before a new voice answered. This was softer, higher, and yet richer than the last. A voice he knew so well it echoed in his dreams.

"Mycroft, is that you? Whatever is the matter?"

"Sherlock, my brother. He's missing. I. . .I'm afraid."

"I'll send someone right away." And she was gone.

He ran his hand across his eyes, wiping at them until they were raw. He was relieved in a way that she was not coming herself. And yet. . .no, that was over now.

Now, Detective Sergeant Gabrielle Brown was perhaps his only hope to find his brother. That was all that mattered.


	2. Evil Eyes

**Evil Eyes**

_**Warning: This section is the reason for the rating. It contains large amounts of graphic imagery and sick shit. Read with caution.**_

* * *

><p>The first sensation Sherlock noticed as he moaned awake was pain. Burning, slow-ache pain throughout his entire body. He tried to move, tried to do something to ease the soreness. But he could not.<p>

His arms were bound behind and under him as he lay in a cold, dark place. At least he assumed it was dark. He could see nothing through the thick blindfold that covered his eyes.

He gasped the rest of the way awake, thrashing at the cords which bound him. But his movements simply made the twine sink deeper into his flesh, sending rivulets of blood trickling down his broken body.

"Hello?" he called, fear edging his young voice. "Hello, is anyone there?"

There was no reply. He whimpered softly as he managed to roll over to his side, slamming his left shoulder into the edge of the space he was lying in. He face planted into porcelain. A bathtub, then. That would explain why his legs were bound at the knees. Well, it was a step up from a coffin, he supposed.

Using a large dose of adrenaline and what little strength he had, he managed to haul himself into a sitting position, sighing as the pressure was removed from his arms. That was much better.

He was just beginning to formulate a plan of escape when he heard footfalls. He slammed himself back on his back, letting out an involuntary cry of pain as the cords cut in deeper.

The door opened violently and he felt strong hands grasp him about the shoulders.

"I heard that," hissed a voice in an indistinct whisper. "I know you're awake, little creature."

He gasped as his unseen assailant punched him in the gut, stealing his breath.

"I think we should try to be honest with each other."

Sherlock tried to smirk at this, tried to be brave. But when he spoke, he could hardly conceal his terror.

"Then. . . Then take off this blindfold so I can s. . .see who you are."

This was met with a sharp slap across the face. "No, you impertinent mutt! And you will address me as Brother. Unless you want me to make this harder on you. Which believe you me, I can. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Yes. "

He took another punch to the stomach, so hard it made him sick all over himself. The stench seeped into his pores. He had not had much to eat in the hours before his abduction, so the acid in his vomit burned away at the cuts on his naked body.

"Yes, Brother," corrected the voice.

"Yes, Brother," he answered weakly.

Then he was pushed, his head slamming back against the edge of the bathtub, where he met the sweet, forgiving darkness again.

* * *

><p>Hours and days meant nothing to Sherlock. Time passed as quickly or as slowly as the man who called himself Brother allowed. He had not been permitted to wash, or even leave the tub. And the decaying vomit mixed with his blood and waste and left him so completely over stimulated with vileness that he imagined nothing would ever phase him again.<p>

_If I survive._

He shuddered. Yes, he wasn't even sure if he was alive now. Surely, this was hell.

The door opened once more, and Brother lifted him up again.

"You've been a good little beast. I think perhaps it's time to give you a meal."

Sherlock gasped in shock as the shower-head above him finally kicked to life, covering him with ice cold water. The man's rough, strong fingers massaged soup into his broken, filthy skin, and he cried out in pain as they moved roughly over the bruises which now purpled on his chest and stomach. The man stopped, grasping the young man's throat in his hand and squeezing tightly.

"No barking now, mutt. Or I will have to break your bony little fingers. One. By. One."

"Yes, Brother," he gasped, and the man released his neck, returning to his body.

Once he was clean, the man lifted him out of the bathtub and carried him out the door. He was still blindfolded, but Sherlock concentrated, trying to form a mental map of their route. Left. Right. Downstairs. Right.

As the man opened the last door, Sherlock could smell the musty decay of a molded-out basement or wine cellar. Before he had a chance to react, the man hurled him to the floor. As he cowered there, his knees raw and bleeding, the man held a knife to his back.

"I am going to let you out of these bonds. If you try to escape, or try to fight me, I will skin you. Understand?"

"Y-yes, Brother," he replied, his voice shaking.

He whimpered slightly as the cords were torn out of his healing wounds, leaving him raw and bleeding once more. But he did not, could not cry out.

He flexed his arms gently, wincing as they refused to work properly. The man turned and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Sherlock reached up gingerly and removed the blindfold. Not that it helped much. The basement, as it was, was dark as night, though he had no way of knowing what time of day it was. His eyes were drawn to a corner of the small room where a small key-chain light illuminated a chipped china bowl. He stumbled over to it, staring into it hungrily.

_Food._

It was nothing so pleasant as gruel. The pasty substance in the bowl tasted like boiled feet and smelled worse. But he was far too hungry to care. He knelt by the bowl and ate like an animal.

Things were beginning to look up.

It was not long, however, before it became clear to him that the food, such as it was, had been drugged. He felt his eyes lolling, his mouth impossibly dry. And by the time Brother returned, he could barely move.

He put up no struggle as the man rebound him, this time with shackles and chains. He did not even struggle when he clamped the heavy weighted collar around his neck and dragged him to the far wall, shackling him there.

"Oh, I think you may have eaten too much, you greedy pig," hissed the man as he blindfolded the nearly-unconscious boy once more. Not that he needed to. Sherlock's vision was swimming enough that he could barely make out his own shoulder as his head lolled towards it, choking him on the collar.

He winced as the man stabbed him in the chest with a needle. "Adrenaline. That should wake you up," he mused, his voice a cruel twist of amusement.

Sherlock gasped to life, throwing himself at the man, trying to rip his arms and legs free from his bond. But as he struggled, the collar dug into his throat, choking him more and more. And then he cried out in anguish as the man sent a pulse of electricity through the chains.

"Now, now, behave," he crooned.

"Yes, Brother," he replied, his voice cracked.

The man began to run his rough fingers over the younger man's body, twisting them particularly hard over his bruises. Then he grabbed him roughly by the hair and kissed him hungrily.

Sherlock contorted his body, trying to get away. But the chains were too tight, and every resistance was met with a shock. The man hummed against him as some of the shock spread to his body as well. He seemed to enjoy it.

"You can't do this," Sherlock gasped.

"Oh, I believe you'll find that I can. You're not human. You're a twisted little freak. You don't have rights."

"I do. I am."

The man laughed, a sickening sound. "Oh, really? No one cares about you. You're not even an animal."

"My brother cares about me. My brother will save me. You'll see."

The man grabbed him roughly by the cheeks. "Your brother? How do you think I found you, poor little monster? Do you think he wants to take care of you? Do you think anyone loves you? No one does. He's left you to rot here. With me. I am your Brother now."

"No." Sherlock tensed. It couldn't be true. Mycroft wouldn't. . . it was true that they did not always get along, but Mycroft would never. . . Would he?

"He hates you. He told me so."

"You're lying."

"Am I?" The man pulled Sherlock up by his hair. "If he really cared, wouldn't he have saved you by now?"

Sherlock couldn't argue with that. For all he knew, he had been here for weeks already. His sense of time was so skewed that perhaps Brother was not lying. Perhaps Mycroft really did hate him that much.

The man let go of his hair, caressing his cheek gently.

"So you see," he said in mock compassion, "I'm all you have left. Now listen to your Brother."

"Yes, Brother," he replied mechanically as the man grasped him roughly and began biting on his shoulder.

* * *

><p>As time went on, Brother's visits to the basement grew longer and more intense.<p>

The first time he forced himself on Sherlock's mouth, the younger man was convinced that he was going to die choking and sputtering. But even this he got used to. It became a routine. And eventually, it all even started to feel kind of good.

He disgusted himself.

But what filled him with the most shame was the rare occasion when Brother would reciprocate, would go out of his way to make him feel good, would make him beg for release, panting and gasping and eyes glazed with lust that overpowered even his hatred of his captor.

His body was not his own. It was dirty, animalistic, and evil. And Brother took great pains to remind him of this. To remind him of what a dirty little slut he was. How he deserved this. How he craved it.

And Sherlock believed him.

Maybe this had always been who he was.

_Just an animal. Not even human._

_Twisted._

_Broken._

_Dirty._


	3. The Rescue

**The Rescue**

The first 24 hours after a kidnapping, they say, are the most crucial. By the time the police had begun looking for Sherlock, it was nearly a week later. Whatever evidence there had been was most likely gone. And due to the boy's habits, they could not even be sure where he had disappeared from. They searched the area around the alley where Mycroft had last seen him, but there was nothing.

At the end of the third week, Mycroft sat by the fire, which had long since burnt to coals. A full plate of spaghetti sat next to him, cold and untouched, the sauce congealing sickeningly. He stared into space, immobile but for his haunted eyes.

_If only I had been kinder to him. If only we hadn't fought. . ._

He shook his head.

_No. He's tough. I'm sure he's fine._

He was roused from his thoughts by a loud knock on the door.

"Yes?"

A constable walked in, his face heavy. Mycroft recognized him. The thin one.

"DC Peters. What is it? Have you. . ."

The young man smiled sadly up an Mycroft, his green eyes bright with sympathy.

_No. No, no._

"We've found your brother, sir."

He leapt from his chair with agility that surprised even him, pulling on his coat.

"Sir, we haven't. .. we don't even know if. . . Sir, you can't come with us."

Mycroft burned the fear of god into him with his eyes. "You found my brother. To hell with your regulations. As a member of government, I outrank you. I'm coming."

Peters nodded shakily, and they ran to the squad car.

* * *

><p>As they pulled up to the dilapidated building, Mycroft had to use all his willpower to remain calm. Even on the outside, the place looked like something out of a horror novel. It was an old Queen Anne, windows boarded to keep ruffians out, decayed and probably burned out more than once. A signpost hung vacant, though a splintered sign beneath it read in faded black paint <em>Ashford Brothers Tailory<em>. It was clear that the brothers had gone out of business long ago.

"Oye, Peters, I thought we agreed not to bring the brother here," hissed PC Thompson, a stouter man with a rather archaic moustache.

"He pulled rank on me, James," muttered Peters bitterly.

Mycroft nodded to the stouter man.

_So she had sent her best men. Of course she had. She would not have come herself._

"Thompson. Good to see you again. Though I'd hoped the circumstances would be better."

"Agreed, sir." The constable turned back to his colleague. "We've run a full sweep of the building. Not much sign of life, I'm afraid. Les-" He gulped, looking quickly at Mycroft. "I mean Brown said you're to take three peelers and work from the roof. I'm to start in the basement."

Peters nodded, turning towards the uniformed constables. "Right. Dawson, Lambert, Scott. Come with me."

Thompson turned to the others. "Right. Let's do this."

* * *

><p>The stench of decay and fear was overwhelming, and Thompson nearly choked as he led his colleagues into the bowels of the old building. Bloody thing had three subbasements. He wasn't even sure that was legal.<p>

As he neared the last door on the bottom level, he thought he heard something.

"Shh. Anyone here that?" he whispered.

All four men craned their necks. Yes. Whimpering. It was faint, but. . .

Thompson tried the door. Locked. Of course.

"Come on, then," he hissed at the man next to him. The shouldered the door, grunting as it gave way. It was black as the devil's behind inside, and the torchlight did not improve visibility by much.

The sight they were met with would be burned into Thompson's memory forever. Years later, he would cite it as the reason he left the force.

Bound to the left hand wall was a figure that may have once been a healthy, happy young man. But the sighing, whimpering mass of bone and frayed skin that greeted them looked more like paintings of the grim reaper he had seen as a boy in his history book. He could count every single one of the naked young man's ribs, some of which barely had skin covering them. He was a study in bruises and lacerations.

The constable next to Thompson fled to vomit wretchedly in the hallway. He did not blame the man.

He approached the boy slowly, tilting his chin to look into his eyes. The storm-colored eyes that stared back were wild, desperate.

"What do you want?" he rasped, licking his chapped lips slightly.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" he asked simply.

The young man stared at him blankly for a long while, as though trying to remember. Finally, he nodded slightly.

"I'm a police officer. I'm going to take you home," he replied, gesturing to his fellow officers. They picked the shackles quickly, and as his chains fell from his body, the boy crumpled in a weakened hap at Thompson's feet.

He ripped off his coat and wrapped the boy in it, lifting his prone body in his arms. He was far lighter than Thompson expected, and his heart ached as he thought of what the poor young man had been through. He carried him wordlessly out of the building as Sherlock snuggled against him, shaking.

"It's alright, boy-o," he whispered into the lad's ear. "We'll soon have you to rights."

_And when we catch the person who did this, they will regret it more than they could ever imagine._

"Sherlock!" cried Mycroft as Thompson carried the boy towards the car. He leapt up, running towards them. "Sherlock!"

Thompson smiled gently at him. "He's pretty roughed up, sir. But he'll live. We have to get him to hospital."

Mycroft froze as he took in the state of his little brother. It was both better and worse than he had imagined. He walked carefully towards the constable, reaching out a hand to smooth his brother's matted curls.

A skeletal hand grabbed his wrist.

"Don't touch me," hissed Sherlock ferally.

Mycroft stared at his brother in shock. It was true that neither brother had ever been very physically affectionate, but this hostility was something new.

"Sherlock. . ."

"Just. . .just. . ." he sighed, his voice shaking. "Just let me be. You've done enough."

Thompson smiled sadly at Mycroft. "I'm sure he's in shock, sir. He don't know what he's saying."

"Doesn't," Sherlock muttered, passing out.

Mycroft nodded, his face grave. "I suppose so. Let's get him to a doctor. Now."

* * *

><p>"I see," replied Detective Sergeant Lestrade, sighing in relief. "And. . . How is he?"<p>

"The boy, sir?" replied Thompson on the other end of the phone.

"No, Mycroft. How is he?"

Thompson sighed. "You know him, sir. Stoic as ever. Maybe more so."

Lestrade smiled slightly at this. "Indeed. Good work, Thompson. I imagine you'll get promoted after this."

Thompson chuckled slightly. "You say that every time, sir. I'll see you a Detective Inspector before that ever happens."

Lestrade laughed. "That'll be the day."

He slid the phone back into the receiver, running his thumb across it gently as he thought. Yes. It had to be now. The boy was safe. That was enough.

He pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write in flowing, graceful cursive.


	4. Gabrielle

**Gabrielle**

* * *

><p>Mycroft sat by his brother's hospital bed, staring sadly at the brutalized boy who lay there. This was not Sherlock. He was so full of life, so full of energy. He should be a bundle of biting sarcasm, not bandages.<p>

_This is your fault_, Sherlock had muttered in his sleep.

_You did this to me._

Those words had cut Mycroft deeper than he had cared to admit. He would never put his brother in harm's way on purpose. Yes, they didn't always see eye to eye. But this?

He shook his head. How could he be held responsible for this? He wasn't there. . . He. . .

_I wasn't there._

He buried his face in his hands.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." he whispered. "I should have seen this coming."

The younger man moaned in his sleep, his eyes twitching beneath closed lids. No matter how much pain medication they gave him, the doctors had not been able to take away the nightmares.

The past few days had been a nightmare for Mycroft as well, as he learned exactly what had happened to his brother.

_Internal injuries._

_Signs of sexual abuse._

_Trace amounts of heroin and cocaine._

The doctors had tried to sugarcoat it, but he'd snuck in and read their reports. And these were just the tip of the iceberg.

Mycroft could not even begin to imagine what he had gone through, or who would do such a thing. His brother did not have a lot of friends. But he did not have a lot of enemies either. Certainly none who would do something like this.

He frowned, trying to suppress his rage.

"Sherlock," he said, his voice shaking. "I am going to make this right. Do you hear me? I don't have the power right now. But give me a few years. I will. I will become someone with the influence to do something about this. And then I will find the people who did this to you and make them suffer. I swear it."

Sherlock whimpered in his sleep. "Mycroft," he cried softly, "Where are you? Help me."

_I will. So help me, I will._

* * *

><p>"Mr. Holmes."<p>

Peters' voce startled him awake, and he stretched in his hospital chair, moaning as he discovered a crick in his neck.

"Yes?"

Peters smiled sadly at him. "You really should go home, sir. We have a guard posted. Your brother will be safe."

Mycroft sighed, nodding. "Call me when he wakes up."

"I will, sir. Oh!" He fumbled in his coat pocket. "I'm sorry to give this to you now, sir, but this is for you."

Mycroft stared at the note the constable offered him. It was on office paper, the same weight and heft used at the Yard. And the flowing hand. . .

_Dear Mycroft,_

_I am glad that your brother is safe at last, and I hope that you are well. I am extremely glad I could help you rescue him. But I have to ask that you not call me again. If you do, you will not reach me. I am being transferred. I cannot tell you where._

_Please forgive me. I know the timing could not be worse._

_Yours,_

_G_

He stared at the note in shock. Gabrielle. Gabrielle was leaving.

No.

He stared at Peters. "Where is she being transferred?"

Peters frowned at him. "Sir?"

"Detective Sergeant Brown. Where?"

Peters' eyes widened in recognition. "Oh. I haven't been told. It's all top-secret."

Mycroft sighed. He knew the young man was lying to him. It was just as well, he supposed. She clearly didn't want him to know, at any rate.

"I'll be going home now. You will call me?"

"Yes, sir."

He sighed, stalking down the hallway.

He had been right after all. Caring was not an advantage. And so help him, he would never let it happen again.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Double post today! Don't get used to it. I'll try to update again on Friday. In the meantime, part one of "Gabrielle"<strong>_ **_is up if you need something more lighthearted to read after this angst-fest. -CS_**


	5. Vanishing Point

**_I lied. Here's an update._**

* * *

><p><strong>Vanishing Point<strong>

* * *

><p>When they told him he could finally take his brother home, Mycroft was ambivalent. Was he really ready? He looked down at the young man sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. He had gotten so small. Had he always been so small? So fragile?<p>

The clothes Mycroft had brought from Sherlock's closet hung off him now like drapes, barely serving their purpose. The boy had always been on the gangly side, but even with the fantastic care he'd been getting, he still looked like a skeleton.

And those eyes. Those beautiful, stormy, haunted eyes, still ringed with black. When he looked at Mycroft, it sent shivers down his spine. Sometimes, he didn't know the person staring back at him. Sometimes, that person scared the living hell out of him.

"Ready?" he asked, a slight smirk on his face.

_Yes. You have to be strong for him._

"You don't have to do this," he hissed back.

"Do what?"

"Treat me like I'm glass. Or act like I give a damn what you think."

The bitterness in his brother's voice made Mycroft's blood run to ice.

_He doesn't mean that. He can't mean that._

"Sherlock -"

"No. Let's get one thing straight. I don't trust you. I don't trust anyone. But you least of all. _Brother."_

Mycroft thought about what another person would do. Another person would pull Sherlock close and hold him until he knew he had nothing to be afraid of. Another person would say sweet words of consolation, would make him safe and comfortable.

Mycroft had never been good at that. He patted Sherlock awkwardly on the arm.

"Yes, well, I don't care. Trust me or not, I'm in charge of you until you go back to university."

"Fine."

"Fine. Right. Let's get you out of here."

* * *

><p>Sherlock's physical recovery was slow enough, what with his lack of interest in food or sleep. His experiments had gotten progressively stranger. Where he used to play with compounds and study the beautiful things of science, he had become morbidly obsessed with death and violence. Mycroft barely felt comfortable leaving him alone at home.<p>

So one day, he didn't.

"Sherlock," he called up the stairs, "can you come here? I have someone I'd like you to meet."

Sherlock plodded into the room, holding a small beaker with what appeared to be half of an ear in it. He stopped short as he eyed the stranger with suspicion.

Female. Late thirties. Unwed. VERY single. Five cats.

He smirked slightly. Judging by her body language. . .

_Oh, Mycroft, you oblivious bastard._

"Not interested," Sherlock muttered.

She held a hand out to him. "I'm Doctor Vincent. You must be Sherlock."

"Must be? Yes, compelled to be. Accurate, I suppose. But I don't need a psychiatrist. I'm perfectly well-adjusted."

Mycroft grabbed the beaker from his brother with a glare of disapproval. "I'll just leave the two of you to talk, then."

* * *

><p>"So?" he asked the doctor when she finally emerged.<p>

She frowned. "You'd better let me take him back with me. He's highly unstable. Sociopathic tendencies, antisocial behavior, self-abusive. . . One thing's for certain, he won't probably ever be able to live in normal society. I'm sorry, but your brother. . . He's. . ."

"A monster," hissed Sherlock to himself as he listened through the keyhole. "Tell me something I didn't already know, Doctor." He stalked away to his room.

"I'll come back for him at the end of the week."

Mycroft stared at her. "How dare you! How dare you suggest that he. . . He's my brother!"

"Your brother who's about one trauma away from becoming a serial killer."

"And imprisoning him doesn't count as a trauma?" Mycroft could feel his rage building.

Doctor Vincent pulled a brochure out of her bag. "Look, sanitariums aren't as bad as they used to be! This is the nineties. Look. Here are the rooms. Look at this garden. We even have rooms where he can watch telly, and a huge library. It's not a prison."

He shook his head. "Even prisons have comforts. No. I won't let you take him. He's my brother, and I can handle him."

"Can you?" She frowned at him, her brown eyes dark with concern. "If he kills you. . ."

"He won't."

She sighed, slipping him a business card. "In my professional opinion, you're making a huge mistake, Mr. Holmes. When you realize that, do give me a call."

"I won't. Good day, Doctor Vincent."

He barely refrained from slamming the door in her face.

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't come downstairs for dinner.<p>

Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes as he climbed the stairs to his brother's room. "Maybe I should have let her take you. They'd force you to eat."

He knocked on the door. "Sherlock, are you decent?"

There was no reply.

"Sherlock?"

Nothing. He tried the door. It was unlocked.

When he entered the room, the first thing he noticed was the open window.

"Oh, Christ! Sherlock!" he bellowed, running to the ledge and peering out, half-expecting to see his crumpled body on the pavement. He sighed in relief as he noticed the dangling bed sheets. At least he wasn't dead. Yet.

There was a note on the bedside table. Mycroft picked it up gingerly. He was getting rather sick of notes.

_I'm sorry. I can't let you send me away._

_But she was right. It's not safe for me to be here. For you. Please, don't look for me. If you must, don't look very hard._

_I'm sorry, Mycroft._

_SH_

He sank onto the bed in disbelief, clutching the note tightly. Then he crumpled it, threw it across the room, and buried his head in his hands.

_Sherlock. . . Why?_


	6. Orphanarium

**Orphanarium**

* * *

><p>Months rolled by without very much to mark their passing. Summer turned rather abruptly to crisp, dark autumn, autumn to chilly, damp winter. By the time the green things of the world once more stirred to life under the April sun, many other things had come to change. And many stayed the same.<p>

Mycroft found himself rather quickly promoted at work. He refused to acknowledge how that had happened.

_Whatever it takes. To find the monster who did this. And to keep Sherlock safe._

But it seemed that the more power he got, the less of his own investigation he was able to do. He had become a government asset, and his chief responsibility was to stay out of harm's way.

He was not allowed to be a tiger. So he became a fox.

The changes in him were subtle at first. He did not smile as much as he used to. But on the opposite side of the emotional spectrum, neither was he prone to outburst. He began to spend more and more time at the Diogenes Club, anything to get away from the thousand questions that hounded him, from the cunning, ruthless illusionist he had forced himself to become.

One day, he woke up and could no longer remember his brother's face. And that terrified him. Terrified him, and forced his hand.

His network was finally big enough. He had to move quickly.

* * *

><p>"Oye, you can't sleep here!" barked a rather rotund man, kicking the bundle of rags at his doorstep with the toe of his workboot.<p>

Sherlock moaned in pain, struggling to escape the assault. He stared up at the man with half-glazed eyes.

"You're pissed, is that it? No concern of mine. This is a respectable borough, this is. Go back to your sewers, you mangy rat!"

A light went on in the upstairs window, an a figure silhouetted against it.

"What is it, honey?" called a sleepy, feminine voice.

"Nothing, Madge. Just some half-drowned boozehound on the step. Go back to sleep."

The shadows moved. A few seconds later, an equally rotund, kind-faced woman arrived behind the man in her dressing gown. She smiled down at Sherlock, eyes bright with compassion. He smiled back warily.

"Harold, he's just a child. Look at him. Poor lad's half starved to death, he is."

The man stared at her, slack jawed. "Oh no, woman, we've talked about -"

"Oh, piss off you old sod! I'm going to make him some breakfast. Would you like that, dearie?"

Sherlock thought about the last time he'd eaten. Was it four or five days ago now?

_Four._

He shook his head slightly. The woman frowned.

"Now don't be shy. You'll come in here, so you shall, or we shall call the police. Breakfast or peelers. Your choice. And it would rather be a shame to miss one in favor of the other," she added with a smirk.

Sherlock sighed, letting her help him off the pavement before passing out rather violently in her arms.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock awoke, he cried out slightly in confusion. He was lying in a bed. An actual bed. With sheets.<p>

Then it dawned on him. The plump couple. He moaned, running his hand through his dampened hair.

So he'd been bathed. He shuddered, thinking about the last time anyone had bathed him. At least this time they had provided him with some flannel pants.

As he stood, he could hear muffled arguing from another part of the house.

"For God's sake, Madge! Remember the last one!"

". . .Just a boy, Harold. . ."

"So was. . . One. Remember what happened?"

"This one's different. . . Had the devil in him, he did."

". . . bloody drug addict!"

He heard heavy footfalls approaching the room he was in, and he quickly returned to bed.

"Ah! You're awake," crooned the woman. "Good lad. Come up, let's get you some breakfast."

"Your husband doesn't like that I'm here," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"No, he sure don't," she replied, beaming at him. "But don't you mind him none. He's a good sort, once you get to know him."

He picked gingerly at the massive plate of kippers piled in front of him. A dull choice, really, and not one he was extremely fond of. Then again, almost all food fell into that category.

"Don't just play with it, boy-o," growled the man. "Eat the bloody things!"

"Harold," cautioned his wife. He stalked out of the room, muttering about his wife and her "projects."

When he had finally eaten enough that the woman let him leave the table, she led him back to the same bedroom and opened the wardrobe.

"Now, then. You're a bit taller than the last one, and thinner. Perhaps a touch older, too, if I had a guess. But I suppose these'll fit you."

He looked at her incredulously. "Where are my clothes?"

"Burned em. They weren't more than rags anyway, dear. Small loss."

He felt a small ache in the pit of his stomach, and for a second he thought it was a bad kipper come back to haunt him. Then he realized he was actually. . .

_Mycroft bought me that shirt._

He shook his head.

_Don't you dare turn sentimental, Sherlock. You do that and you've already lost._

He picked up the offered clothing. A grey button shirt that promised to be huge on him, black pants with a belt he should still have to carve extra holes in, and a rather attractive black coat. He smiled slightly at the woman.

"Thank you."

She nodded. "I'll just let you get changed."

After dressing as best as he could, Sherlock pulled open a desk drawer. Finding a pen and paper, he began to write.

* * *

><p>An open window and a note. That had become Sherlock's MO. Sometimes he would stay for a few hours, sometimes up to a few weeks. But he never let himself get close to the people who took him in. Never allowed himself to be lulled into a sense of familiarity.<p>

_If I do, they'll find out I'm not like them. They'll call me a monster. Freak. Not human._

So he moved across the city, sleeping where he could, keeping mostly to himself. He learned the ins and outs of a life sleeping rough: where to go, who to haggle with, where the free meals were. He became well-versed in card games, scraping together drug money by using his talent for reading people.

It was a simple life. And not a great one. But at least he was alive. At least no one else controlled his fate.

He always kept one eye over his shoulder, always listened for that voice, that terrible voice that haunted his nightmares. He feared nothing so much as the return of the man who had broken him.

_Brother._

* * *

><p>But he needed not fear the shadow of his past. For the man called Brother had done what he was about. His purpose fulfilled, he sat back and watched the man he hated above all others twist and fall apart day by day.<p>

_This is all your fault, you know. And I do love to watch you suffer._


	7. Journeyman

**Journeyman**

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: I wasn't satisfied with where the last few chapters were going. I've decided to rework them and choose plot over personal indulgence. Thus, I will be updating slower, but with higher quality. I trust this is a win-win. -CS<em>  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Mycroft sat with his left hand cupped about his chin, studying the file in front of him. He sighed, flipping through the pages idly. Whoever had typed this report up should be shot.<p>

Not that he'd much interest in the Current Unrest in Indonesian Factories, or whatever it was called. Not at present, at least.

Not while his brother was still wandering the streets. And certainly not while Rhylstone was still at large.

"Sir?"

He glanced up at his aide with slight disdain, sighing gently. It seemed he couldn't get rid of the young man, always so eager to please. And this "sir" nonsense was getting rather old as well.

"Yes, what is it, Grant?"

The Cornishman stared at him, grey eyes bright with concern.

"It's just. . . You've been here all night, sir. And well, _I've_ been here all night, and. . ."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Really? What time is it?"

"Nearly four in the morning, sir. Begging your pardon, but you've been rereading that same page for almost seven hours now."

"Yes, well, it's very poorly written," he snarked, closing the file and tossing it on the table.

They stared at each other for a few moments. Finally, Mycroft coughed.

"Well, is that all?"

"Yes, sir."

He sighed. "Go home, Bolitho. You can take the day off. . ."

The young man's eyes lit up. "Thank you, sir!"

Mycroft smirked. ". . .If you promise to do me a favor first."

"Anything, sir."

"See to it that this mission gets reassigned, would you? I'm afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was in a daze, which was nothing new. He had been living in a fog for months upon months, stumbling about the streets, too broken to live, too stubborn to die.<p>

His body had aged quickly, and his once strong frame had been reduced to an aching mass of gristle and spit. Little else held him together.

_Thoughts! Thoughts! Too many thoughts! Can't slow down can't stop can't sleep can't even breathe._

He leaned against a wall, coughing violently. As he drew his hand away from his mouth, he could see a crimson streak follow it.

_Internal bleeding. The velocity of a steel-toed boot encountering my kidneys would have been sufficient. I should have rolled._

He fell to his knees, strength finally leaving him.

_Die like a dog._

* * *

><p>Sherlock moaned softly, opening his eyes to slits. He felt like the back side of hell.<p>

"Good morning," called a cheery but raspy voice.

Sherlock opened his eyes wider, scanning for the source.

A pale-haired man of questionable age hovered over him, smiling warmly down at him.

_Lab coat. Scientist, no, doctor. You're slow today, Sherlock. Look at the stethoscope. Wait. No. Registrar. The way he carries himself. . ._

"Who are you?" Sherlock mumbled. Then his eyes widened and he struggled to rise. His arms and legs were bound, and he began to thrash.

"Stop it." The voice was commanding, brutal. It triggered something in the younger man, and Sherlock complied, going limp.

"That's a good lad. Now then, I'm afraid we're going to have to do a few tests."

"You need to work on your bedside manner," hissed Sherlock. The man made him more than a little uncomfortable. Something about him. . .

"Who are you?" he asked again, softer this time.

The man's smile broadened. "Oh, we've met. But if it makes you more comfortable, you can call me Dr. Lewis."

He produced a needle, tapping into Sherlock's IV.

As his eyes glazed over, Sherlock saw the man's green eyes sparkle with amusement. But by then, he was already beginning to lose consciousness.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes was terrible at following orders. He was, however, excellent at giving them, and he was in rare form as he harassed Dr. Jamerson, chief physician.<p>

"I want you to keep me informed of his status at all times. Copies of everything. Do you understand?"

He nodded, skin pale as milk under the glow of the florescent light.

"Yes. But don't you. . . Don't you want to see him?"

Mycroft froze, his icy blue eyes searching the doctor's warm amber ones for some spark of reason to appeal to. But the man was sentiment, the way the world was sentiment.

He thought of his brother, of Sherlock the way he'd been before his kidnapping, his stormy eyes bright with genius as he fought his way through another challenge. He was strong, stubborn, resilient. And though they had rarely seen eye to eye, that spark of intelligence and stubbornness had burned in them both, had kept them together in spite of their differences.

The young man bound to the hospital bed was not his brother. Not the way he wanted to remember him. This person lay weak and broken and dulled by the drugs, unwilling to even fight for his own survival. It was not the first time since he'd left Mycroft's care that he'd been brought in, beaten within an inch of his life, and every time, it took him longer to recover. He had given up.

They had nothing left in common.

"That's quite all right. Just let me know if. . . Anything changes."

_Meanwhile, I've a man to find._

* * *

><p>"Sir!" cried his aide so loudly and suddenly that Mycroft dropped his teacup. It hit the ground with a smash and a splatter, and he hissed in pain from the hot liquid as he turned to the young man, eyes icy.<p>

"Bolitho! What have I said about knocking?"

The young man nodded, his grey eyes bright with fear. "Sorry, sir. But I thought you'd want to see this. We found him, sir."

Mycroft's heart froze in his chest. "Found whom, exactly?"

The aide handed him a file. As he scanned through it, his face paled.

"Grant, get the car ready."

The young man nodded, his black hair flopping about as he ran.

_You won't get away from me this time._

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, you lost him?" barked Mycroft, eyes blazing at his subordinate.<p>

"I mean, sir, that he's vanished. Completely and totally vanished. He was here just a minute ago, and when I left to call your office, he was gone."

Mycroft sighed, rubbing his eyes in frustration. "Of course he is, Harris. You left your post. He saw an opening. He's probably halfway to the States by now."

Bolitho picked at his sleeve. "Should we get INTERPOL on it, sir?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No. They'll just want to imprison him. I can't let that happen."

His eyes went dark.

_I want to obliterate him._


	8. Misdirection

**Misdirection**

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, vanished?" hissed Mycroft, his icy eyes vivisecting Dr. Jamerson.<p>

The man stared at him in something akin to trepidation.

"I mean, he's gone. No one knows where."

Mycroft slammed his fist on the doctor's desk, appearing every inch a vengeful god. "How did this even _happen_? Good God, man! Don't you have measures in place to prevent this sort of thing? I mean, he. . . he couldn't have walked out by himself. Not in the state he was in. Someone must have. . ."

Dr. Jamerson sighed. "I swear, no one has any idea. The cameras in his ward were offline for five minutes at the most. He was there, and then he was gone."

"That is unacceptable!" fumed Mycroft.

"I agree, and I will take full respons -"

"Damn right you will," spat Mycroft. "And believe you me, if _anything_ has happened to him, anything at all, you will never work another day in your life."

* * *

><p>The first thing Sherlock noticed was the smell. Musty, damp. Old basement, perhaps.<p>

He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the half-light. He appeared to be in an old operating room, judging by the cabinets against the wall and the half-decayed linoleum that clung to the floor in patches like leprous skin.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. But whatever he'd been given, it was potent.

_This must be what being normal feels like_, he mused. _Everything's so slow._

"You're awake," crooned a soft voice from behind him. "Good. I was beginning to worry I'd given you too much."

"Who. . . Who are you?" he rasped.

The voice chuckled. "Only a cog in the machine, I'm afraid. Just like you."

The pale-haired man leaned over his face. He looked even stranger upside down, like the subject of a surrealist painting. His green eyes flashed in amusement as Sherlock tried to head butt him, choking abruptly on his neck restraints.

"You really are an amazing creature, Mr. Holmes," crooned Dr. Lewis. "Anyone else would have lost the will to fight long ago. It's such a shame we've had to break you. You are a lovely one. . ."

He stroked Sherlock's cheek with the feathery tips of his pale, bony fingers.

"Leave me alone!" snarled Sherlock. "Please. . ."

The man shook his head, smirking slightly.

"I'm afraid I can't do that. I have my orders. And you're hardly finished yet, my little creature."

He leaned over again, biting at Sherlock's lower lip. The young man whimpered slightly at the contact, his mind racing.

"You will be the loveliest present when we're done," murmured Dr. Lewis, reaching a hand down to caress him.

Then he pulled away, vanishing from sight.

Sherlock gasped, a single tear breaking free from his bloodshot eye and flowing in feather-tickles down the bridge of his nose.

_I was supposed to be safe._

* * *

><p>The phone call startled Mycroft out of a deep sleep. He moaned angrily, nearly knocking the phone to the floor in his clumsy grappling.<p>

"Hello?" he groaned, willing himself awake.

"Holmes? It's Detective Sergeant Peters."

"Peters?" Mycroft yawned. "When did you get promoted?"

"Last week, sir. It wasn't in the papers or anything. Lestrade finally made Inspector."

_Who the hell is Lestrade?_

"Anyways, sir, that's not why I'm calling. There's been a murder."

Mycroft froze.

_No. No, please. Not Sherlock._

"And. . . And why are you calling me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

"DI Lestrade thinks you'll be able to help identify the remains, sir. Says you know. . .er. . ._knew_ him."

_Oh, God, no._

"I'll be right there."

* * *

><p>The body, or what was left of it, lay on the cold slab of the mortuary. Mycroft did not have a weak stomach, but even he had to turn away from the sight at first.<p>

The man in question had been eviscerated, his intestines coiled about his neck, leaving his abdominal cavity mostly bare. There was an object shoved in his mouth that Mycroft identified with a new wave of nausea as the man's scrotum. The rest of his genitals were missing.

Even with this brutal mutilation, Mycroft could clearly identify the aquiline nose, the austere brow, the slender cheekbones.

_Rhylstone_.

The man he'd been hunting. The one who had tortured countless young women, and Sherlock most recently. The face of evil, in his honest opinion. And a man whose breath should have been stopped a long time ago.

"Where was he found?" Mycroft managed.

"Down the Tube. Curious thing. He was pinned to a service tunnel wall with railway spikes. Them's what did a number on his hands," added the coroner, smiling grimly. "Someone didn't like your friend here much."

Mycroft nodded. "He's not my friend. He's my former employer."

_And he deserved everything he had coming to him._

He smiled slightly.

_At least someone made him pay for what he'd done. Now perhaps we can start again._

"One other thing, sir."

"Hmm?" He stared up at Peters, his reverie broken.

"This was found in his shirt pocket."

He handed Mycroft a note, written hastily on Rhylstone's personal stationary. He paled as he read it through the evidence bag.

_Happy Anniversary, Mycroft dear._

He stared at the note in shock.

_What?_

* * *

><p>"Well, creature," crooned Dr. Lewis as he leaned over Sherlock's torso, scalpel in hand, "I think it's time we get to know each other better, don't you?"<p>

Sherlock shuddered, steeling himself against the pain that would surely follow.

_Mycroft. Please. Help me._

"Mmm. . ." mused the doctor, his eyes narrowing. "You still think your brother will save you, don't you?"

Sherlock stared up at him, his storm eyes fierce. "I trust him. He will come for me. He always does."

The doctor clicked his tongue, casting a look of pity at the boy as he gently cut into the tender flesh of his collar.

Sherlock barely repressed a cry of agony as he curved the scalpel around his collarbone, drawing necklaces of blood.

"Don't you understand? This is all his fault. You wouldn't be in pain if not for him. He did this to you."

_No. No, that's a lie. Mycroft, please._

_Isn't it?_

He was no longer so sure.


End file.
